in my dream, i am standing in the middle of the street. snow is coming down from low pink clouds, and the air is choked with the smell of diesel made sharp with cold. my chest is heaving, and there are empty gas cans at my feet. spilled fuel pushes the snow back; the border between the two is a poison petroleum rainbow.

the house is burning; thick soot rolls out of broken windows like tongues over teeth. boards and plaster, 98 years overdry and sheltered, crack and split. paint curls up and blackens; old ghost stories drift up to the falling snow.

no one is screaming, no sirens sounding, no one is coming. i am hot and cold.